


Mother Hen and Chick

by ChastityHollister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, lack of inhibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChastityHollister/pseuds/ChastityHollister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft accidentally drinks an experimental drug, and it causes him to lose his inhibitions. He is forced to take a leave of absence from work, and moves in with Sherlock to be close to him during this difficult time. Sherlock has confused feelings.</p>
<p>Schmoopy and silly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Hen and Chick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [a kink meme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120574047#t120574047).
>
>> Mycroft drinks one of Sherlock's experiments.  
> Some hormone something or other. And now, he can't stop being sensitive. The crying. The hugging. 221B is a MADHOUSE.  
> Mycroft's handlers order him to take a leave of absence. The British Government isn't supposed to address foreign dignitaries as "sweetheart".  
>  It Just.Isn't.Proper.  
> Sherlock demands John do something. John retorts that it's his experiment-he has to come up with an antidote.  
> Mrs.Hudson in the meantime, teaches Mycroft to knit while they watch Eastenders.  
> And Sherlock, well.....maybe he's dragging his feet trying to fix things because this is the best he and Mycroft have gotten along since they were kids. Plus, Mycroft bakes a lot of Sherlock's favorite sweets. Not that that has anything to do with it.

"What are you doing here, you fat git?"

"I was feeling distressed, and needed to be near you." Mycroft put his umbrella down, and enveloped Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock was too astonished to move, for a moment.

Mycroft tenderly kissed his cheek, and let him go with a small squeeze.

"I'll make us a lovely cuppa, how about that?" he said, and filled the kettle.

Sherlock observed that his brother had left the office in a hurry, not carrying his briefcase, so not intending to work at home. He wore the same impeccable suit he had worn when he had burst in on Sherlock's experiment earlier that day, and looked all together put together, not a hair out of place.

"Why were you feeling distressed?"

Perhaps Sherlock had not been successful at concealing his refined bath salts (upped dopamine production, inhibited dopamine flushing) in the coffee, and Mycroft knew he was thinking of using again.

Perfectly legal, of course. A newly invented psychoactive drug could not be on the proscribed list, after all. But Mycroft did insist on being a mother hen.

"Ever since I drank your coffee this morning, I have been quite unable to contain my impulses. I was in a meeting with the Czech minister of foreign affairs - he is such a dear man - and I accidentally called him "Sweetheart". You know, I have always had a close and trusted relationship with the Bohemian royal family. But that sort of familiarity is utterly unsuited to delicate politics!

Prince Karel laughed it off as a joke, but I had to report myself ill, and I was ordered to take a leave of absence. And that's when I realized you have been experimenting with drugs again."

Tears filled Mycroft's eyes, and he embraced Sherlock once more, petting his hair gently.

"I can't bear it when you hurt yourself, Sherlock. Please don't do it. Come to me, or John, if you need to be cheered up."

Not knowing what to do, Sherlock stood passively, letting Mycroft cry on him.

*

"You're a doctor, John. You really should do something to fix him."

Mycroft wagged his finger reproachfully at Sherlock. "Now, now, Sherlock. I'm in the room, be polite or you shan't have any of these sugar biscuits." Then he continued stirring the bowl, carefully staying on the lino of the kitchen, but where he could see the telly.

Sherlock prudently held his tongue, but he wasn't really worried. Mycroft wouldn't withhold the biscuits, when they were so obviously intended for him. It was Sherlock's favorite kind, with the crunchy nib sugar sprinkled on top.

John shrugged. "I don't have your experience with pharmaceutical chemistry, nor do I have your formula or notes. You fix him."

Sherlock felt vaguely disquieted. Mycroft ought to be healed, the country needed him. But it was difficult for him to focus on a solution to Mycroft's problem; whenever he tried, he felt nauseous and out of sorts. Clearly, his fourth form Latin teacher had been correct, and Sherlock had an irrational fear of failing to perform academically - odd that this had never manifested after any of his numerous previous failed chemistry experiments, but his old Latin teacher must have been very perspicacious, seeing signs too subtle for Sherlock himself to notice until now.

*

"Hello Sherlock, dear! We're watching Eastenders, come join us." Mrs. Hudson levered herself over gingerly, and patted the sofa invitingly.

She was having difficulty moving her leg sideways - her hip must be giving her trouble again, due to the cold front moving in.

"You're cold through, love. Sit down and drink some hot tea," Mycroft fretted, nearly wrestling him down between them and wrapping him tightly in a blanket. "Here." He thrust a cup of tea at him, scalding hot through the thin bone china. Mycroft always used the nice tea set.

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "I'd offer you some biscuits, but I'm afraid we were naughty and ate them all ourselves. The take-away will be here soon, though." 

When Mrs. Hudson used her herbal soothers, she was usually too hungry and absent-minded to nag Sherlock to eat, but not so with Mycroft. 

"I have some toast with honey for you, but we really must get your hair dry first, Sherlock, or you'll catch your death." He evaded Mycroft long enough to put the tea on the table, then submitted meekly to a thorough towel-rubbing of his head. It was no use trying to stop Mycroft, he would only cry, and then Sherlock would get that awful, helpless knot in his stomach.

Mycroft dramatically drew the towel away from his face, and made a big-eyed look of surprise: " _There's_ my curly little lamb!" Mrs. Hudson giggled, and Sherlock couldn't contain a snicker. He never had been able to, when Mycroft did that.

His brother put the damp towel away, stuck the toast and the tea in Sherlock's hands, and settled back down to watch the telly. Sherlock snuggled in between him and the still cheerfully laughing Mrs. Hudson, and enjoyed the warmth. The weather really was dreadful, and he had been quite chilled.

*

Sherlock was drawn out of his meditative contemplation by the sound of John bumping around the kitchen, putting groceries away. There was also the low murmur of Eastenders from the telly, and the soothing, nearly rhythmic clack-clack of knitting pins. Mrs. Hudson? No, no scent of floral perfume.

He opened his eyes. Mycroft was in Sherlock's chair, knitting. Observing Sherlock's look, he held his work up in display. "It's going to be a hat, to match your scarf."

"I won't wear it."

Mycroft's face remained composed. "I would like for you to wear it. And if you do, I have a rather juicy little problem for you to sink your mind into." He nodded at a manila folder lying on the coffee table, a folder of the sort he used in his office.

It had not been there earlier that day, and no strangers had been to the flat. Sherlock glanced at John. Surgery, then supermarket, then straight home. He had not been past Mycroft's office.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson tapped in, holding her craft basket. "Oh, thank you, John." John was holding up an empty mug, and giving her a significant look. He smiled and nodded, and filled the kettle.

Mycroft didn't say anything about the plain mugs, or needing a bit of beauty and elegance in his life, he just serenely kept on knitting.

"That's coming along very nicely, Mycroft. Very even and smooth," Mrs. Hudson praised, looking over his handiwork.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I haven't needed to unravel anything today, what with being more clear-headed."

"I'm glad you're feeling better! I was worried about you. You really are an awfully quick study, even when you were feeling poorly."

Sherlock snorted. As if mere knitting would be a challenge for Mycroft's awesome calculating mind.

"I had an excellent teacher," Mycroft replied with studied gallantry, not letting on if he perceived any condescension. Then, with an afterthought, he lifted the sides of his mouth a precise eighth of an inch.

The nausea came back, rolling over Sherlock in a suffocating wave. He jumped up and over the table, and hurried into his room, slamming the door after him.

He slid down to the floor, holding his pounding head together firmly with his hands. The room was quiet around him, cool and dark and soothingly simple, but it was not enough. He needed something, something to help him deal with the roiling, squirming unpleasantness inside.

He'd been a fucking idiot, to tip his new drug into the coffee mug, not even a trace of it left. Never mind that it hadn't been finished, he would take some right now, if he had it.

*

"Sherlock, come out, dinner's on." John thumped his door, rattling Sherlock's head where he leaned against it, then stomped back into the kitchen.

Sherlock turned his head, and pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear his own blood, and John setting the table, and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft chatting quietly.

Why hadn't Mycroft left?

He shed his dressing gown and pyjamas, and freshened up in the en suite, before putting on clothes and shoes. Then he went out there.

The three of them were sitting around the kitchen table, more than half way through eating a take-out curry. John had also heated some garlic bread from Angelo's, to make up for there only being two servings of naan, and opened a bottle of wine. Mycroft was carefully ignoring the white bread and rice on the table, and only picking at the meat. He was drinking water.

"Careful of that cream sauce, Mycroft, or you will have to have your trousers let out again," Sherlock advised sympathetically.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson and John hissed at him, and Mrs. Hudson cast Mycroft a concerned look.

"I believe that is my signal to leave," Mycroft said, expressionless. "Thank you for a lovely dinner, John."

John nodded at him mutely, and scowled at Sherlock, which was unfair. John was supposed to be on _his_ side.

"Remember, Sherlock," Mycroft said, after he had buttoned his coat and hooked his umbrella over his arm. "Wear it, or you don't get to look at the case." He drew a blue gray knit hat from his coat pocket, and threw it neatly at Sherlock head. "I don't want you getting pneumonia from going around without proper clothing in all sorts of weather."

Sherlock clutched the hat before in could slide off and land in the food. It was very soft, and perfectly finished.

*

He obediently wore the hat whenever it rained or snowed. It really was no use struggling with Mycroft over every little over-protective display. One had to pick one's battles.


End file.
